


After the Storm, Thunder Prevails

by Wizard95



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, World War II, set during POINTS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2020-12-27 09:20:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21116414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wizard95/pseuds/Wizard95
Summary: Donald can't quite fit in after being sent to Paris. Buck Compton knocks on his hotel room door and intends to lift a bit of weight from his shoulders... with ambiguous results.





	After the Storm, Thunder Prevails

**Author's Note:**

> Purely based on the actors' portrayals on the mini-series. No disrespect meant towards any historical figures or veterans.

It feels odd. Paris. Being here. The people, civilians wearing colourful clothes and little boys and girls cycling around. Pubs and cafés packed to the last table, people chatting happily, oblivious._ Painfully_ oblivious to all the horrors of the battlefield. The blood, the makeshift beds, the tasteless food, the paralyzing cold and dreadful knowledge that from one moment to another you could just simply cease to exist. A step taken in the wrong direction, a bullet straight through your head. No steps taken, too. They had been right were they'd meant to be, safest place there was, and then again... It hadn't made a damned difference.

Who would blame them for choosing to turn a blind eye to it all? Donald certainly wouldn't. He'd trade places with any one of them on the spot if it meant escaping his own tattered mind. He too would like to be oblivious. But life is what it is, and he's been through what he's been through without so much as a scratch to account for it. Physical, that is. So he should be grateful.

There is only moving on now, he's here with a purpose and it isn't on any of his plans to let Major Winters down. He's here on behalf of all of Easy, and he's not going to screw it up. Just as he'd give anything to trade places with a French baker whose main concern is getting the pies out of the oven in time, he knows there's more than one boy back in Austria who wouldn't mind trading places with _him._ What's more, Malark is sure there are others more deserving of it. Buck comes to mind first, because those deep blue eyes staring into nothingness are something that Donald hasn't yet been able to shake away. He's not sure where Buck is now, but surely a couple of months' stay in a proper hotel, with proper food on a plate and proper shampoo to wash his fair blonde hair would be very much welcomed.

It's not that he _isn't_ grateful, it’s that it feels wrong. Wrong to be here surrounded by patterned wallpaper and clean sheets smelling of lavender when all he's known for the last two years is a muddy bed and the stench of filth and sweat. It’s almost as if he's grown so accustomed to it that a civilized life feels foreign and distant.

"A couple more days..." he mumbles to himself as he massages his temples and stares at the half-eaten donut in front of him. A very kind gesture from the very kind clerk, no doubt. The same one that insisted he took their best lodgings for the same price as he intended to just stay in a modest, normal-sized room at the back of the hotel with a view of the bricked wall and trash cans down on the alley.

He'd had a long drive, he was stiff and sweaty and quite exhausted and hadn't had the energy to insist past three times that no, there was no need for a queen-sized bed and a pretty view of the busy street below. But he was here now. Balcony shut right off despite the humid hot weather, he just can’t hear the hustle and bustle of the city any minute longer, a constant reminder of his whereabouts, of the stretch of land that separates him from all his brothers and comrades who lay stationed and waiting for orders. To ship out to the pacific. No. He'd rather shut himself in with the music on until he’s called upon by a superior to begin the lecturing.

He feels terribly useless in a room that is two times the size of his actual house. He takes a long drag of the cigarette and stares at the bed. Too big. Too soft. Unbearably soft. He couldn't get a wink of sleep on his first night, and he locked himself in the bathroom at 6am to have a bath and found himself dozing off. A much more familiar feeling, the cold and rough material of the tile pressing against his spine, shoulders and neck. He'd come out mid-afternoon to find the bed all done up and perfumed. And he hadn't even sat back down on it since then.

What a waste.

Somebody else would be much more appreciative of it. Of the polite young girls who popped in every now and then to dust and clean -- an utterly unnecessary thing to do, but they just wouldn’t give it up despite him insisting on it -- the too-eager middle aged clerk who ensured he got the best of the best and even urged the bakers to make donuts with sugar icing to make him feel at home.

Little did the _monsieur_know, home wasn't home anymore.

Home was watered-down coffee and too-salty stew, a Hershey's every now and then and monochromatic clothes, and greasy hair and cigarettes and a bunch of guys being guys. Loud and understanding and randomly breaking into song to lift the ever-so grim mood that lingered after someone was taken away missing a limb. Blue eyes and reassuring smiles and uncertain hugs.

Home wasn't home. Not a donut and a coke and a spacious lavender-scented well-lit room.

Home was Easy.

He puts the cigarette out and slides the chair back to make his way to the bathroom, running a hand on his chin, a thin shade of a beard hardens his features, he thinks when he looks into the mirror. But then again, so do those tired eyes and permanent frown. He’s become a bit like his old man, he reckons. Always something to be grumpy about.

He takes a deep breath and looks down at the razors with boredom. He really can’t be bothered to do it, and yet he’s got no other choice. It won’t do to stroll into a room full of apprentices looking like he just fell off the bed, not to mention turning up to his superiors looking like he’s just come off the line. Not everyone is as pliant and accepting as the clerk downstairs, especially not military men.

So he picks the razor up and after a good five minutes he’s all done, washing the cream off with cold clean water from the tap. Staring at his reflection he finds it really has made no difference on him. If anything, it’s made him look even paler.

His hands come to rub at his temples again, an almost automatic motion, a reaction to the never-ending headache that keeps him company twenty-four hours a day. He’s woken up from his reverie by a loud knocking on the door, and as he takes a last look at himself in the mirror, he makes his way towards the entrance glancing at the clock hanging on the wall right above the balcony windows. He stops midway, realising he hasn’t even pulled up the curtains yet, and it’s already almost ten.

“Comin’!” he shouts, as he jogs to the other side of the room and quickly lets some light in -- keeping appearances. He’s got no intention of letting it show, the fact that this place is driving him quite mad, too shiny and white and civil-like. He tosses what’s left of the donut on the nearest trash-can on his way back to the door. “Comin’!” he repeats, and has a quick look to ensure all his clothes are in place before pulling the door open. “It’s a bit early for lu--”

But it’s not lunch, it’s not one of the cleaning ladies. The fake smile leaves his face quick as it came.

He stares at Buck, lips slightly parted and at a loss for words, and he blinks. He makes a guttural sound that doesn’t resemble any proper word, and he blinks again.

“Didn’t think you’d get rid of me that easy, did ya?” The blonde, in turn, sports a wide smile, cheek to cheek, and he pulls Malarkey into a hug before the redhead has any time to mutter a thing. By the time he’s come back to his senses and intends to return the hug, Buck is already walking past him into the suite.

“You’re in Paris?” Don blurts out, then shakes his head at the usless remark. Buck lets out a long whistle as he takes in the view.

“They sure are treatin’ you right” he smiles, turns around with that wide grin directed at Malarkey, who’s standing awkwardly by the door still. “Yeah I’m in Paris!” he laughs, and Don can see the moment the spark in his eyes dies down, the excitement being replaced by something else.

Don watches as the blonde shifts his weight from one leg to another and clutches a jacket on his hands, uncertain.

It snaps him from his reverie.

_ Fucking say something, you moron. _

“I-- that’s great, you staying? I thought you’d be on your way home by now” and he takes a step forward and gives Buck a friendly pat on the shoulder, “Why are you still here? Not that-- not that I don’t want you here, far from that, just…” and he trails off, cocking his head and showing a sheepish smile. He’s a sight for sore eyes, he is, but it feels strange to be seeing him so soon, Don thinks.

“Well, I got word you were staying in Paris and thought to drop by on my way to see the boys” Buck shrugs and he turns around and makes quite a theatrical sprint towards the bed before jumping on it. “You got a couple of free days, don’t you?”

That elicits a deep sigh and another temple-rubbing from Malarkey, who instantly stops doing it once he realises.

“Yeah” he crooks, and when he looks back up from the floor Buck is eyeing him over in sympathy. Now this is something he had missed, Malarkey thinks, no words spoken and yet a handful of things said. It was the unavoidable bond, the camaraderie grown from days on end of foxhole-sharing and battle. “Waiting for a lieutenant Williams to come fetch me, like I’m a four-year-old or somethin’” he goes to sit on the edge of the bed, on which the blond is now comfortably sprawled over, arms behind his head, perched up on the pile of fluffy pillows.

“You gone out at all?”

Malark lets out a snort at that, because it’s a question that doesn’t need answering. Almost rhetorical, actually.

“I’ve gone walking” he mumbles, and stares at the gramophone on the other side of the room, resting atop a wooden carved table. He knows that’s not what Buck means by ‘going out’. He doesn’t mean it that literally. Still, it’s all he’s done and somehow coming up with some story about a nice bar he didn’t go to with young French single ladies he didn’t meet doesn’t feel right.

And Buck would probably see right through him.

So he tells him about the walk.

He leaves out the details. He’s gone out walking alright, at 3 in the fucking morning, unable to lay up staring at the ceiling of either bathroom or main room, unable to drift into a peaceful sleep -- or any kind of sleep. Only after three or four beers and a hot bath does he sometimes manage to pass out. But this he doesn’t voice out -- and yet the silence seems to speak for itself. He knows it does.

It wouldn’t speak to someone else. It wouldn’t speak to the waitresses downstairs serving at the tables, it __hasn’t__. Time and again he has found himself too caught up in daydreams to return a question or comment directed at him, and yet the silence doesn’t seem to carry any meaning to those strangers, who simply give a polite smile and scatter off probably thinking him rude.

He can’t help it, his mind being too loud, way louder than the present. And the memories being too livid, playing in front of him like a goddamn movie with the volume turned up -- playing over everything. Mortars going off next to him and far away as well, guns being fired and showers of bullets embracing him but not hitting him, not him but the rest, always somebody more unfortunate than him getting the worst of it. Loud screams of agony, calling for doctors and incessant cursing, _those damn Krauts, fucking Nazis!_

And always, _always_ the faces of Muck and Penkala, even though he can’t remember what they were doing the last time he saw them. He only remembers the cloak of white covering it all, frozen branches and crimson stains on the dirt. Flesh. He can’t remember the last thing they told him, their last conversation in Bastogne before they got-- “Don?”

“Hm?” He snaps out of it, not having realised he’d gone at all. He never realises it -- not until someone bumps into him, drops something on the floor, makes some car’s claxon ring out through the street, or until he spills something on himself mid-drink. “Yeah, I went out walking, beautiful city, Paris.”

Buck is sitting next to him now, and he didn’t hear him come over.

The blonde gives him a playful smile which doesn’t reach his eyes, and Malarkey stares at him, at those ever-so-blue orbs. There seems to be a little bit more light in them, more than the last time he looked, at least. He returns the smile as best he can. He’s glad Buck’s been able to heal, even if it’s only a little.

In these times, a little is a lot.

“Well then, gotta make the most of it, right?” The blond stands up, “I’m gonna get some shut-eye and then we’ll go out and have a couple drinks”

“Alright” Malarkey nods, “where you goin’?”

Buck stops on his way to the door and turns around to see the redhead frowning at him.

“My… room?” he suggests, playfully again.

“You got a room?”

“Oh no, no. I’m staying down at the lobby, crashing on one of the sofas. They’re surprisingly comfortable and I’m closer to the kitchens”

“You kiddin’ me?” Malark shakes his head, “you ain’t paying for a room while I’m here with a fucking bed four times the size of me” _which I don’t even use_, he adds in his head.

“Well, since you insist!” and when Buck makes for the door there’s a knock on it just in the nick of time. On the corridor stands a bell-boy with two bags and one of those dreadfully-sour welcoming chocolates. Malarkey places both hands on his hips and can’t hold a genuine smile this time when the short-haired blond turns and has a look around suspiciously. “Our room’s bugged” he says, and for a moment there Malarkey is reminded of George Luz and his inexhaustible sense of humour.

He finds that having Buck around grounds him. It’s somehow easier to forget -- only a little, only for a few minutes at a time -- and focus on the now. On the words coming out of his mouth, the glances he keeps sending that brunette over on the next table, the polite and easy-going chit-chat he keeps up with the bartender and his very rusty French words of gratitude before he returns to their corner with their third round of drinks.

Had Malarkey tried this alone yesterday -- or the day before that or the day before that -- he would’ve failed completely. He’d have been intimidated by the amount of people not wearing uniforms and would have turned on his tail and returned to the hotel to lock himself inside his room and then inside his bathroom, some randomly-picked French jazz record playing loud on the wealthy-looking gramophone. It’d become a bit of a routine.

But he was comfortable with Buck in front of him, didn’t feel alone like any other time surrounded by civilians. The lack of uniformed men around made him feel rather lonely on occasion. It was borderline ridiculous.

Malark chugs down the sweet and light beer and notices the young woman in the green dress stand up from her chair.

“Now’s your chance” he tells Buck, gesturing towards her when she isn’t looking. “Come on!”

“What?!” Buck leans over the table and makes a face, but Malarkey knows the music isn’t that loud that he can’t make out his words. He rolls his eyes.

“She’s leaving, what you been sendin’ her hungry eyes for all night?!” Malarkey leans over the table himself, to ensure Buck can’t pretend he doesn’t hear this time. “I think it’s_voulez-vous _dance or somethin’ like that…” and he gives him a kick under the table as a way of encouragement.

She walks right past them -- not without sending a last inviting smile towards Buck -- and the fair-haired American sends Malarkey a hesitant look before he stands up himself and catches up with the _mademoiselle_. Now, they’re far enough that he doesn’t catch their exchange, and he doesn’t feel like turning around to bear witness either. Of their exchange of words or any other kind of exchange.

He tugs at his tie, feeling it just a bit tighter all of a sudden, and downs the last of his drink. He gets joined by a couple of RAF pilots not long after, and he’s way on his fifth round of drinks when he finally sees Buck again, being led outside by what’s-her-name. Green Dress.

James brings up another round of pints, as he calls them, and Malark tells him he’s buying the next one. He’s been on duty for almost four years, a flight lieutenant. Tom’s a bit lower on the ranks, though, just a pilot officer. And all this information was of course the usual ice-breaker.

“I’ve used my chutes a couple of times... Landed on water and froze me bollocks off”

“Better than not landing at all” James comments. “Right Donald?”

“Oh yeah, at least you got no trees to get caught up in…” he answers, halfheartedly; painfully recalling a very vague image of a fellow paratrooper who’d suffered that unlucky fate on D-Day. They’d taken all his ammo. Had he been taken down? Had he been buried? One of many, surely.

“Well, no more swimming for me, I reckon. Jerries are finished, everyone’s saying it” Tom answers, straightening up on his place as if to give his words an air of importance.

“Yes, they’ve been saying it since bloody ‘42” James nods in the redhead’s direction, and Malarkey offers him a vague smile. It’s getting harder to understand their accents, and that should be his cue to slow down on the alcohol intake, but he really can’t be bothered. “That we’d be home by Christmas. And then we’d be home by March. And so on and so fucking on…”

“Want to bet on it?”

“You’re not going to come whining when you’ve got no fags left?”

“I’m going to win this one” Tom points at his friend with conviction, Malark watches the exchange with a smile.

“Of course”

“Let’s go two packs” Tom decides, much to James’ amusement. “You in, Donald?”

“Nah, I’m fine” he says, words the slightest bit sluggish.

“Suit yourself” Tom turns back to James, “and I get your leather jacket”

“I’m going to agree, because you’re not winning” he laughs.

“Fuck off” front this moment on, Malarkey can’t hear a thing. There’s a loud bang nearby -- definitely inside the bar. Could’ve been anything: a bottle slipping from sweaty fingers and smashing on the floor, a chair giving in due to an excess of weight or even someone starting a brawl. Could’ve also been a gun being fired, because that’s exactly what it sounded like to him.

He should be able to tell the sound apart by now, he’s done nothing but hear it for the last year and yet -- the alcohol is clouding his mind and the music makes him doubt it. It sounds like a gun being fired, like any other gun he’s heard before, in Bastogne or Carentan. In France, in England or in Belgium. And suddenly he’s back there in one of them. He isn’t sure which one -- all of them at the same time.

He brings both hands over his head -- no helmet on!

_“Covering fire!”_

_“Move! Keep moving!”_

_“GRENADE!”_

“Hey mate, you alright?” A warm hand comes to shake him by the shoulder, and he lets out a surprised gasp and snaps his head up instantly, finding himself back in a dimly-lit room and being stared at by two men in blue uniforms.

It takes him a whole minute to get his bearings back. The music slowly increases its volume as he stops hearing and seeing people that aren’t there. James slides his full glass of beer in his direction at seeing him so agitated and repeats the question.

Malarkey doesn’t answer.

He stumbles out of the chair and sways.

The English stands up along with him and his hand returns to his shoulder to keep him steady.

“I’m fine” shrugging him off and taking a step back he makes the mistake of catching both their eyes. It prompts him to get away even quicker. He slips his hand on his pocket and grabs a handful of francs -- he tosses them on top of the table. “Sorry” is all he manages to blurt out before he turns around and hastily makes his way outside into the fresh air, the one that’s breathable.

Except it’s not, and he feels like his lungs are failing him -- but he turns the corner towards the hotel’s block nonetheless, eager to be out of the street and out of sight. Out of everyone’s sight. He left his gun back in the room, why did he leave his gun? No way to defend himself, counter-attack, just a target now in the street, and so many buildings around, so many windows from which a bullet could come and he hasn’t the greatest of aims and Shifty’s not here either.

_“Medic! Mediiiic!”_

“_Incoming!_”

He ends up throwing up on somebody’s doorstep not long after.

He knows he looks like shit even before he’s made it up to his room and into the bathroom. He knows this because it is the first time the clerk doesn’t approach with a friendly smile and intends to chit-chat, ask him about his day or list him the menu’s dinner offer for the night. Malarkey walks past reception in autopilot, sweaty and paler and quite out of himself. The trip up seems to have shortened, but that’s only because he’s not paying attention to the lengthy staircase and he’s already panting by the time he climbs the first steps.

In the same state of silent daydream he unbuckles his belt and gets off his trousers and socks, takes off the smelly tie and shirt and leaves it all lying there on the floor not bothering to fold it up for the maids -- that’s a first. He sits under the shower of water before it starts to fill up the bathtub. Although the hot water relaxes his tense muscles it does nothing for his nerves this time. When he finishes putting on his cotton trousers and olive tank-top, he realises that’s it for the night. He’s not touching another drop of alcohol till morning comes -- the nausea hasn’t completely left yet.

Means there’s nothing to help him disconnect.

And his hand doesn’t stop shaking either, even after a good hour has passed and almost a whole pack of cigarettes have been smoked. Sitting on a chair drawn close to the balcony, he stares. Looks at nothing but sees a whole lot of stuff. Torn clothes, bloody hands, pale faces and scared teary eyes. Red spluttering over dirty uniforms, completely drenching the fabric, the bandages, the doctor’s fingers. And a lot of destroyed buildings, nothing like the bright pink walls opposite. No perfectly-clean windows with perfectly-white curtains. Broken glass and grenade smoke, instead. Sometimes civilians. Not these civilians, though: the ones in his head shout and run or cry or ask for help in a foreign language only few of them can understand. There was gratitude when there was time for it.

The cigarette smokes away between his fingers, almost untouched. When he hears the door being gently closed, he blinks and the starry sky outside comes into view and the vague sound of crickets nearby on somebody’s plant-pot can be heard again. Not that it ever left…

He has a quick glance behind and sees Buck tossing his jacket on the bed.

“Hey, I went back there to get ya”

Malarkey looks at the clock over his head. Barely nine.

Buck comes close and drops a handful of coins on the table, right next to the pile of ashes, “your change, from a Lieutenant Murphy”

“Thanks” Malarkey mumbles uninterested, closing his eyes and dropping his head back tiredly. His eyeballs hurt, the headache has settled in for the night, of that he’s sure. A faithful companion it is.

“He said you were a bit drunk, this Lieutenant” Buck comments with a hint of amusement. “You alright? I know it can be a bit heavy on the stomach after some time” he snorts out a laugh, but Malarkey remains unresponsive.

He thinks it’s rather pointless to explain it. It’s obviously so plain to see he’s already fucking puked his guts out. And he’ll see the clothes on the basket once he uses the bathroom, and there aren’t any bottles of beer on the table, and there __would__ be otherwise. He wasn’t _supposed_ to be drinking, this wasn’t a vacation. He’s waiting on orders, for goddamn sake! If Williams knocked on his door right now he’d find him sick to his stomach and sitting on that chair wearing nothing but his spare pair of cargo trousers and a tank-top, smoking his life out and feeling sorry for himself. He would send him straight back to Austria without a second glance, deem him unfit for the task.

Granted, not _exactly_ a very different image from the one he would’ve found three days earlier, except… there’s something today that wasn’t present before. Tonight. Tonight it feels like he’s about to burst, so tired of the on-going conversation with himself, one voice telling him it’s going to pass and another one constantly reminding him that no, it _shouldn’t_ pass. Why should he forget? Why should he try to bury it down? This is what he is, a soldier; he’s meant so see those things and go through those things and he’s meant to be able to cope with it. The experience is supposed to make him __valuable__, not vulnerable.

“Don?”

“_What_” he barks out and finally opens his eyes to see Buck staring him down with a frown.

“I’m tryin’ to talk to you” Buck simply shakes his head and shrugs, like he’s not at fault.

But Malarkey thinks he’s at least a little bit at fault, because none of this was happening before he turned up.

“Well what do ya want?!”

Buck opens his mouth to say something but stops himself, stares into Donald’s eyes as if he’s staring right into his soul. Malarkey hates the feeling. Just like those two Air Force brits, staring him down like he’s a dying animal that needs saving. The redhead stares defiantly up into his friend’s eyes, a tinsy bit of remorse deep inside of him being overruled by the jealousy he’s chosen to ignore and the stress he’s been carrying around for who-knows-how-long.

“Nothin’” Buck says, voice soft as velvet, quiet. Clearly swallowing up something he meant to voice out, and he starts to tug at his tie to take it off, walks back behind him and Malarkey doesn’t bother prying. He closes his eyes again and makes himself comfortable on the chair. When he hears Buck go into the bathroom five minutes later and turn on the water, Don wishes he wasn’t here. He wishes he’d gone straight up to Austria like he’d planned, wishes he’d never gotten word of him being in Paris. Wishes he hadn’t gone out the bar with that dashing young French chick. _Fuck_.__

“Music” he blurts out as he stumbles out of the chair and makes his way to the gramophone. He needs to stop thinking.

The room is instantly filled with the sound of jazz and blues sang in French and Malarkey can feel himself slightly and almost as instantly letting out some of the tension in his body.

He shouldn’t take it out on Buck. It’s not his fault he’s got a thing for him, with his extremely blonde hair and deep-blue sea eyes, it’s not his fault he’s on edge all the time and it’s definitely not his fault him being in Paris instead of Oregon. Buck’s gone out of his way to check up on him and keep him company -- and he just shouted at him.

And he didn’t shout back.

He lights another cigarette and leans down on the bed, music still on despite the nagging headache. How he wishes he could just be home right now. With mom and little John, helping her cook or telling him tales -- he’d definitely ask. John would want to know about the Krauts he’d killed. Though he wouldn’t call them that. How. How many. _How big were the guns? Did you see any tanks? Where did you sleep? Did you jump from very high? What’s a parachute made of? Did anyone else’s not work? Did you get any medals?_

A lot, he’d say. But he really never kept count. Countless. So many men you can’t count them all, you don’t even know what they look like, their names, if they’ve got family, if they’ve got brothers or sisters or daughters or sons. Some of them speak English -- some of them aren’t even German. A lot, he’d say. You just open fire at command, you shoot so that you don’t get shot.

The guns were big, veeeery big, and they could make a tree explode. And bring down a house -- in an instant, three times bigger than our house!_No way! _Yes way! There were a lot of tanks, they were massive! (We made things explode too. Sometimes without looking. Sometimes other people got hurt. It couldn’t be helped. Kids like you, John. Little kids losing their parents and losing their homes. One time we kicked a whole family out to sleep there, but we mostly slept outside). We would dig these huuuuge holes on the ground and stay there. _That’s so cool! _Yeah, it was damp and dirty and cold. And we were usually under some cover there, if there weren’t any big guns around. (But not always. My friends died in one of those holes).

I have a medal, alright. _Can I see it?_ You wanna keep it? _Really?!_ It’s yours. Keep it. (I don’t want it). War isn’t good, Johnny. (And I got you a Luger, but I don’t think I want you to have it. It was a friend’s, you see. He accidentally shot himself in the leg with it and died of blood loss. That’s when you don’t have enough blood in your body so you die. He wasn’t even killed by the enemy. It was just a stupid fucking accident, and sometimes those could happen as well. Car crash. Shot in the head by some stupid idiot drunk shitless. We were scared, we were tired, sometimes we wouldn’t think).

He’s never going to be able to tell them everything. He’s not sure he’ll be able to tell them _anything_. They wouldn’t understand. They wouldn’t see it, they _couldn’t_, they weren’t _there_.

His mom would surely be appalled by his new drinking and smoking habits. Gambling too. It’s not like he didn’t drink or smoke before. He just didn’t do it with a purpose. He does now. Forgetting, calming down, falling asleep.

He drifts off before the album has finished playing. The lights are still on, the cigarette isn’t even out -- it slips from his fingers and falls on the carpeted floor and leaves a dark hole in it. Buck comes out of the bathroom twenty minutes later, shirtless, only his underwear on, hair damp and smelling of lavender shampoo. The vinyl is still going round and round and round, a soft blues sang in English by some French sweet-sounding gal. He doesn’t tear his eyes off Malarkey as he lifts the needle up to stop the music, waiting for the redhead to bark at him to leave it on.

But it doesn’t happen.

Malark is asleep.

He’s still got his boots on and he hasn’t peeled the sheets open or removed any of the giant fluffy pillows -- or any of his clothes, for that matter. Buck turns off the lights and goes to lay beside him, trying very hard not to cause any sudden shift in the weight of the mattress. He leaves the balcony windows opened, because any slight sound will wake him up for sure, and Don hasn’t been sleeping -- hard as he may try to hide that fact.

And he drifts off next to him not long after, staring at his silhouette, his slightly opened mouth and copper-coloured hair.

What wakes Malarkey up isn’t the incredibly soft texture of the sheets or the marshmellow feeling of the mattress. Not what woke him up the first and last time he tried sleeping on it -- after barely ten minutes of shut-eye. This is something new, something that he has seen in other men’s eyes before, in the way they carry themselves and in the way they keep silent when somebody’s speaking to them.

In fairness, it’s the same illness that haunts him during they day but has failed to take over his unconscious -- he’s never had nightmares. And he’s never heard someone shout and scream they way Buck is -- no time to drift into a deep sleep when you’re too busy making sure some Kraut doesn’t jump on you midnight. The battlefield sleep was a shallow sleep.

This one wasn’t.

“Buck” he calls, after jerking awake all of a sudden and being greeted by a chilly room sunk in darkness. It takes him a couple of seconds to come to his senses, but he notices movement next to him almost immediately, and turns to see the shape of his friend’s body turning over. “Buck” he calls again, putting a hand to his shoulder.

Another cry-like sound escapes Buck’s lips, and it renders Malarkey fully awake.

“Buck! It’s alright!”

He tries putting both his cold hands on the blond’s face and giving him a slight slap -- this does the job. It also makes Buck jump on top of him and punch him -- or that’s what Malarkey thinks is happening, when he feels a sharp and sudden pain on his lower lip.

“It’s me! It’s me! Malark!” he cries out, trying to catch Buck’s fumbling hands on his chest to prevent him from hitting him again -- or worse, strangling him on account of being a Kraut.

Buck is straddling him but he suddenly goes still and Malarkey holds his breath and doesn’t move, not sure Buck’s back to his senses, not wanting to make any sudden moves that could be answered with more blows. He’s seen men losing their minds and turning against their fellow troopers. Hell, Talbert had been fucking stabbed trying to wake up someone!

“S’just me” he repeats, breath heavy and waiting for any kind of response, wincing at the taste of iron on his tongue.

“Malarkey?” comes Buck’s cracked and almost airless voice.

“Yeah…”

Two more seconds pass before Buck gets off him and retrieves to the side of the bed he’d been sleeping on. Malark watches him sit on the edge of the bed facing away, and catches his breath for a few more seconds before standing up to turn on the light. He has a sudden flashback at seeing Buck hunched over like that and just for a moment, for a split of a second, the wooden furniture around is replaced by a white forest.

He stares at the blond, hands on his head, and opens his mouth to try and say something comforting.

But nothing comes out.

“Lemme get ya some water” is what he blurts out, before rushing to the bathroom to fill up a glass. He has a swift look in the mirror in the process and sees a red cut on his bottom lip. It stings, but he quickly wipes the blood off with a some of toilet paper and goes back to the room.

Buck is standing outside, on the balcony. He takes the glass of water without tearing his eyes from the street below, and Malarkey stands next to him awkwardly, not finding the proper words to convey all he wants to convey. Whatever that might be. 

“Thank you” he says softly, giving the empty glass back, and Malark catches sight of something shiny on his finger.

He’s still wearing that damned ring. 

“Sure”

“I woke you up”

“I was awake” he says, before he’s even realised, and Buck finally turns his head to give him a look that probably means ‘I know you weren’t’, except his expression takes a complete shift at seeing the blood on Malarkey’s lip.

“Aw, _shit_”

“Ah” the redhead turns around, back into the room. “It’s nothing”

“Shit, Don, I’m sorry”

“It’s okay, Buck, s’just a scratch” he insists, dismissive, going to straighten up the sheets on the bed, for lack of anything else to do -- Buck follows him inside and doesn’t stop apologizing, “really.”

“I thought-- I thought you were--”

Malark turns around to see him gesturing helplessly with his hands, words failing him and breath coming out unevenly again. He drops the pillow back on the bed and walks to him.

“Hey, it’s just a stupid cut, it don’t even hurt”

“Yeah, but” he exhales, and shakes his head, like words are failing him too.

Malarkey hates the look on his eyes -- he's seen it before.

Yeah, but.

Yeah, but it shouldn’t happen.

Yeah, but I should be able to cope with it, shake it off, lock it away.

The mere sight of Buck’s teary eyes makes Malark unable to speak. He sees him look away, turn around as he always does, hide, and he can’t say a fucking word. He doesn’t know _what, how._ He can’t reassure him because he doesn’t know reassurance.

What works on him may not work on Buck at all. A bath, a drink, some music.

It’s Bastogne all over again. Dancing around each other, trying to make conversation and failing at it. Ignoring the elephant in the room. Trying to make each other feel better when they both know words aren’t the solution -- but the solution isn’t something they can reach either.

Not even here, when they’re alone and there’s no-one around to see it.

They don’t dare.

Malarkey stares at Buck’s bare back as he sits on the edge of the bed again and then glances at the clock. It’s almost midnight. The light is on now, the windows to the balcony still opened, the street below quiet and unpopulated. Buck hides his face on his hands and rests his elbows on his legs, leaning forward and prompting Malarkey to slide his left arm behind him and tug him near.

This is okay, he tells himself, this is known territory.

_It’s fine, you’re fine, I’m here. I know what you’re going through._

Buck must have places he returns too as well, Malarkey thinks. Or rather, places he’s forcefully taken back to -- just like __he__ is, without a warning, in the blink of an eye, suddenly not here anymore.

It seems to take its toll on Buck much easier, but then again, the blond seemed to be perfectly well just mere hours ago. Bright smiles and all laughs and jokes. Malarkey, on the other hand... Well, he never seemed to shake off the feeling, like a cloak of raw negativity lingering above him at all times, _trailing_ behind him, holding him back, preventing him from fully blending back in. He couldn’t smile like Buck could, he couldn’t be so social and civil to the people of Paris as they waved when they walked by, he couldn’t walk out of a bar with a date. Hell, he didn’t even stay to buy those Brits a couple of drinks back.

Granted, Buck couldn’t quite hide it when he broke, but he seemed perfectly well otherwise. He seemed to handle it just fine, keep it at bay for the most part.

He, on the other hand, barely held it together. Feigning sanity had become quite a bit of a habit, so much that he perhaps had started to believe it to be true. Now, however, keeping Buck close to him and hearing his labored breath, there’s a lump in his throat and it seems to only increase in size by the minute.

He feels an abrassing urge to join in on the crying, much to his own dismay.

_You’re gonna make it worse._

_Keep it together, for god’s sake!_

He clears his throat, trying to make it go away, and Buck startles and looks up from his position. He quickly runs his fingers over his rather puffy eyes without looking at Malarkey, and one of his warm hands comes atop the redhead’s that’s still resting on his shoulder.

Donald holds his breath for a moment, taken aback by the sudden gesture. Now _that’s_ something he hasn’t felt in some time. When Buck gives a gentle rub and places his other hand on his thigh and pats him gently there, Malarkey hopes he doesn’t realise him tensing over. He’s overwhelmed by a sudden urge to bolt upright and get away before he leans into the touch, before he becomes too greedy, before he screws it up.

“I never thanked you for coming to see me at the hospital…” Buck’s raspy voice finally breaks the silence.

He turns to look at him now, and Donald really has to hold himself back -- they’re too close, Buck’s eyes are too blue, if he gets up now it’ll get uncomfortable, if he gets up now he’ll give himself away, might as well just declare his love for him right there and then.

“You don't have to” is what he mumbles, distracted, voice rather strangled, heart hammering in his chest and breath starting to falter.

Buck looks back to the front and drops his hand from Malark’s. The one on Malarkey’s leg though, he doesn’t lift it. Instead, he gives it another comforting rub; like it’s Don the one that was just now hunched over in silent pain, like it’s Don the one having woken up from a nightmare, like it’s Don that needs comforting.

It brings the lump back to his throat and he blinks a couple of times to prevent the tears from gathering in his eyes.

Buck knows, Buck’s always been a bright guy, he’d been a great leader, he made sure to let himself be known from the very first day he joined their platoon, _Lynn David Compton_, he made sure to keep their spirits up. He probably sees right through him, knows what he’s hiding and knows what he’s thinking but not saying. He’s just too good-hearted to say so.

It suddenly seems a little ridiculous to the redhead to be thinking otherwise. To be thinking so little of him.

“Also…” Buck looks up again, and it’s him the one clearing his throat now, “Also, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I left ya there after Muck and--”

“_Don’t_” Malarkey cuts him off abruptly.

Buck holds his gaze, staring deep into his eyes as if reading all the unvoiced thoughts racing through his head. Begging him to be let in, or for Donald to let something out at least.

“Fuck, that’s such a stupid thing to say” Malarkey blurts out, feeling his voice failing him completely on the last word.

_Stop talking. Don’t say their names. _

_It wasn’t your fucking fault. _

_Just leave it, fucking leave it!_

“Don…”

Buck’s hand firmly presses down on his leg and Malarkey realises he’s closed his eyes. He shakes his head, tries to shake the image away, the image Buck’s suddenly and violently, albeit not voluntarily, brought back. When he opens his eyes he sees one of the blond’s hands coming towards his face: he stands up so quickly that he sees white.

“Shut up, alright?” he barks. There it is again, the passive-aggressive remark he can’t hold back. “I’m not a kid, I can look out for myself. We stand alone, remember?”

He shoots a glance back to make himself look convincing, but he catches Buck’s gaze and it hasn’t changed at all. Still eyeing him over knowingly, patiently, like he’s waiting for him to burst. Like he _wants_ him to burst.

“But you don’t have to, is all I’m sayin’” Malarkey hears him getting up as well, hears the mattress resuming it’s previous weightless position, hears Buck’s next words closer to him: “Together. We stand alone _together_"

But Donald can’t have this now, can’t deal with it now, this double-edge weapon. What Buck’s offering is not what he wants -- it is part of what he __needs,__ but he isn’t sure he can make that distinction. He isn’t sure he can successfully trick himself into thinking it’s enough.

He can’t make do.

“Imma go for a walk” he says, avoiding his friend’s eyes, and he snatches the almost empty pack of cigarettes from the table and makes for the door without stopping to put his jacket on, he’s flustered enough that he doesn’t think he needs it at all.

He doesn’t make it outside, though.

He doesn’t even make it to the door.

“Malarkey!”

It isn’t so much the shock of hearing Buck’s authoritarian voice, the same one he’d heard time and again on the battlefield, what makes him halt. It’s the respect, the years and years of training and discipline engraved into him, into his very cell, into his very soul. It takes him aback, sure, but it only takes him aback after he’s turned round, stood straight and closed his mouth waiting for orders that don’t come. Only after his body’s automatic response is delivered does he realise the hilarity of the situation.

They’re not on duty, he can’t order him about.

"Screw it” Buck strides over to him in three swift steps, resolution written all over his face, exasperation, determination and a whole bunch of things that Malarkey doesn’t have the time to assimilate: he simply takes a step back at seeing Buck coming at him like that, and a second later he’s being pushed against the wall behind and kissed.

The commotion makes the pack of cigarettes fall from his hands and the clash of their mouths and teeth bring the itching pain of that lip cut instantly back. But Malark can barely feel it. He feels Buck Compton tightly pressed against him wearing only a pair of boxers and he feels his cold hands on his cheeks keeping his head still and he feels his lips claiming entrance into his mouth.

Malarkey feels lightheaded but his body answers of its own volition, much like it answered to being called to attention just a moment ago. He closes his eyes, his hands instantly pull Buck closer -- he can’t get him close enough -- and he lets out a moan. It escapes his mouth almost involuntarily, having been trapped in there for who-knows-how-long.

Soon the frenzy of the first kiss is gone as they part to get air into both their lungs, and Malarkey can physically feel himself getting redder by the second. His mouth is dry and it tastes vaguely of mint. He’s panting.

For a moment they just stare at each other, and for a moment Malarkey thinks this is another of those vivid daydreams, that Buck’s not there. That this isn’t happening. That this _is_ happening, but that it wasn’t _meant_ to. That Buck’s going to let out a curse, apologize and tell him that he doesn’t know what came over him.

None of it happens.

“Wanna get out of these?” is what he says instead, tugging gently at his trousers, and Don closes his eyes for a split of a second -- allows himself to savour the moment before pulling Buck on him again quite hastily and kissing him for the second time.

(He still tastes of toothpaste).

He can feel his whole body almost vibrating with anticipation, with desire, love, wanting, whatever it is it’s _strong_, and he doesn’t think he can hold it in. Especially not when he feels Buck’s wet lips on his neck. He lets his head fall back and hit the wall. The next moan he lets out is completely intentional and it makes the blonde hum against his jugular.

He doesn’t need to look down to know Buck’s hard, and he’s quickly catching up with him on that matter. The moment is broken, though. It's broken by three short but loud knocks on their door, and they pull apart as if burned.

And as Buck stares deep into his eyes, as Donald watches him pant, his symetricall plush lips now red, he can feel himself slowly regaining authority over his thoughts and actions. Just ten seconds of silence -- before another set of insistent knocking is heard -- are enough to make him regret it and mentally scold himself for falling for it so quickly and without a hint of hesitation. And Buck's eyes show understanding, pliability. He doesn't make a move to stop him when Malark snatches the olive jacket from the chair and disappears into the corridor. 

He's greeted by a very young bell-boy that apologetically inquires about a ruckus that had apparently been heard by the neighbouring room guests. The kid's English is sloppy and cute French-sounding, but he smiles politely as Donald holds the jacket low on his waist and explains that he suffers from a sleep-walking condition that had had him tripping over a chair and splitting his lip open.

Whether he believes the tale or not, he goes away after reminding him that there's people at reception 24 hours a day to help him with anything he might need. Donald sees him off with another smile and again that nagging feeling of being overappreciated comes back. 

But it doesn't linger for long, this time.

He's got other, more pressing matters to tend to.

To comeback and give in to those terrifyingly alluring lips, those ubelievable blue eyes... To go back and taste it again, or to go down the set of stairs and get a reality check, do the sensible thing. Pretend it didn't happen -- make himself believe he can forget it. 

He takes a deep breath and a couple of steps away from the door and he stops.

He wants nothing more than to turn around and go back in -- but what's to happen tomorrow? What's to happen in the morning, when they wake up to a different them? Different circumstances, an unaccepting world. They'll go back to being just the two American soldiers, the two buddies sharing a room. Out the door Malarkey is just here waiting for orders and Buck's only on a brief stop on his way to Austria, where he picks up women at the local bar late at night and he, stays behind feeling bitter.

Donald sees it as more of a counterproductive thing to do, giving in. 

And yet it takes him a whole minute to resolve his feelings -- overrule and walk away.

If Buck had opened the door and asked him to go back in, though... If he'd just got a hold of his arm and pulled him back in, Donald wouldn't have thought twice of it. He was already trailing on thin ice, he only needed but an ephemeral touch to be completely under.

But Buck stayed in, and as he makes his way into the chilly night outside, Donald wishes he hadn't.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think! Might write a second part if you enjoyed it (: Also, see the posters for this [here](https://smuggsy.tumblr.com/post/188205050534/moodboard-for-a-buckmalarkey-one-shot-im-working).
> 
> (My first BOB fic, yay! Long overdue, really.)


End file.
